Fifty-nine times in the last year, a pattern has emerged. Fifty-nine patterns, and each with an approaching aspect. The resonances emerged, with bits of blue cesium.

I have laid the dividers upon your life, marked the bearing and range. I am the dividers, am the swing of their dance. I know what happens next. I have seen enough.

The spectacle of the oracular tongue, the divinatory flack, lies as offal in the cellophane wrap, inked and sullen. Buy it and nights may begin. Comfort may be brought, but remember, only from your own puppetry, the thick, meaty ventriloquism of hope.